Reach
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Something prompts Joan to visit Adam in his shed the first time after their exchange of each other's stuff in episode 2x20. ONE SHOT.


**Reach**

_by TeeJay_

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**Summary:**  
_Something prompts Joan to visit Adam in his shed the first time after their exchange of each other's "stuff" in episode 2x20. ONE SHOT._

**Author's Note:**  
_This is what happens when you have an office job and get really tired of having to write endlessly boring co-monitoring reports._

_Yes, another post-Trial & Error story. You'd think I've written enough by now, wouldn't you? I know, it's terribly depressing and dark, but sometimes I just feel that way. Especially lately, because I just lost a good friend, which I still can't believe. This story I'd like to dedicate to him because it's the first one I've written since I got the message of his passing. He'll always be special to me, just like this show will always be special to me and have a very special, loving place in my heart._

**Disclaimer:**  
_These characters and settings are not mine. Nor am I claiming they are. They are property of CBS, Barbara Hall Productions, Sony or whoever else they might belong to. I'm not making any money out of this, although I wish I was._

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_**Dedicated to Carsten**_  
**_: 1971 - 2006 :_**

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The shed door creaks slightly as I open it. Stepping inside, the smell is familiar but also unaccustomed. It can't even quite place what it smells of, but it reminds me of good times gone and things taken for granted suddenly, unexpectedly lost. The air is heavy with anticipation, or is that just me?

"Adam?" I ask tentatively. I'm not sure he wants me here. There was a time where I wouldn't have needed to second-guess that he did, but now everything old is new again. Everything is different.

I take another step into the room. The inside is dark and gloomy, compared to the bright sunlight outside, and my eyes have trouble adjusting to it at first.

"Hello?" I ask into the quietness again. The only sound that greets me is the singing of birds from outside, muffled by the shed's thin walls. I briefly wonder where Adam might be, because his father just told me he was going to be here.

Drawings strewn over the tabletop quickly capture my attention. They lure me towards them and I can't help but obey their silent bidding. Most of them are in pencil or charcoal. Some in rough, black markings on white paper, blurred and smudged in places, some in finely drawn pencil lines; perfect reproduction in its most intricate detail. These drawings have 'tortured soul' written all over them—and I can't help by feel a stab of sympathy in my stomach.

I realize that the instinct that tempted me to come here, despite my initial reserve, wasn't far wrong, and I didn't even need divine hints that maybe this was the right thing to do. I study the one drawing I randomly picked out in more detail: A misshapen face of something reminding me of those gargoyles you find on the exterior of old cathedrals is holding a rope at whose end an angel is dangling, its wings cropped, its face lifeless. In the other hand the gargoyle-like creature is holding a knife, about to sever the rope, the connection to the angel.

But before the implications fully seep through, I hear the shed door behind me open and quick footsteps stepping in, then stopping dead in their tracks.

I hold my breath—involuntarily. His voice is like the whisper of the wind, yet surprised. "Jane," he states. "What...?"

He doesn't finish the sentence, or question, or accusation, or whatever he was about to say. I slowly turn around, the drawing still in my hand. He suddenly realizes what I'm looking at and I see him swallow. "You weren't supposed to see these," he says slowly, coldly. It sounds like a threat somehow.

I let the drawing drop from my fingers and it lands on top of the other, colorless sketches. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "Your dad said you'd be in here and the door was open and I thought..."

I step away from the table, trying not to look at him. It still hurts. I know it and he knows it. But I needed to come here, I needed to make sure he was okay. Because when Grace tells you she's worried about someone, it has to count for something. Right?

I pull myself together and make an effort. My eyes meet his and my words sound strangely detached from my brain. "Adam, are you okay?"

He looks back at me. The silent question in his gaze tells me that he's confused by my inquiry, maybe even ashamed. His brow furrows for a second. "Yeah, I... I'm—"

But before he can tell me he's fine—which will be a lie, I can see that—I plow on, "Because this," I point at the drawings on the table, "tells me you're not."

"I'm fine, Jane." It sounds anything but convincing.

I realize this'll take more than just careful prodding. And of course I know why he's doing so "fine" and why he doesn't want to admit that he is, least of all to me. "Look," I tell him, trying to sound determined. "Grace is worried about you, as is my mom. As am I," I add. "I mean, you barely talk in school, and... and my mom says you haven't done your assignments lately."

He looks down to the floor and I can feel the sadness and shame radiating from him even without looking at his face. My voice strong, commanding, I tell him, "Adam, I need to know you're going to be okay."

He looks up at me. "I'm going to be okay," he tells me, his voice more determined than I thought it would be.

"_Promise_ me you're going to be okay," I urge him. I need to know, need to make sure.

"I promise," is what he tells me. For a split second, I doubt his promise, see him not being honest about it. Because he wasn't honest with me about so many other things before, about everything that tore us apart in the end.

I turn around to look at the drawings again. "And this? What's this? Is this you being okay?"

He steps closer and stops next to me. The distance between us is more pronounced now, even when we stand next to each other. Very quietly, softly, he says, "This is me dealing with what happened."

"Adam..." I choke up, trying hard to keep from grabbing his hand. "So this is not you being depressed, hating and torturing yourself?"

The silence that follows speaks more than words. I open my mouth to tell him so many things that have been lying at the tip of my tongue, but none of them is tangible. "What happened, we both know it wasn't pretty. It was stupid and wrong and, yes, it killed the both of us. But you need to get over that, Adam. You need to put that behind you. Because when mistakes are made, you eventually need to realize that you can only learn from them."

His index finger touches one of the charcoal drawings and he rubs the black spot on his fingertip with his thumb. "And what can I possibly learn from this that would make any difference?" he asks dejectedly.

"You can learn not to make the same mistake again. Not to lie again to the people that matter. Not to go behind their backs." My eyes seek out his again, but he refuses to meet mine. "You can also learn how to deal with things like this."

"Things like what? Me messing up? Me being an asshole?" His voice is full of contempt.

"No," I tell him, my voice sympathetic now. "You're not an asshole. You just had a momentary lapse of common sense. And a serious lack of decency. And maybe, just _may_be... there was some hormonal overload."

This prompts him to turn his head and look at me, his eyes widening ever so slightly. "That's not an excuse, Jane. None of it is."

"No, you're right. But isn't that what forgiving is all about? To accept someone's mistakes without a proper excuse?"

He looks down at the floor, studying his feet like there's something intrinsically fascinating about them. His voice is just above a whisper—so full of regret and self-pity and things that make my heart ache at the sheer sound of them. "You shouldn't be forgiving me. Because I don't think I've forgiven myself yet."

"Hey," I prompt him to look at me. When he does, I can just see the tears forming in his eyes. The tears that I know he must loathe so much right now. "Don't you think it's time that you did?"

There is no verbal answer. Just a lot of heavy silence without eye contact before he turns around and leaves the shed—wordlessly. I'm stunned for a second, but then I go after him, follow him through the garden, jog the few last steps to catch up with him. "Adam. Adam, wait."

He slows down, lingers near his house's front porch, then sits down on the one step. His head in his hands propped up on his knees, I can clearly hear that the self-pity and contempt is back. Or maybe it never left. "Just go, Jane. Okay?" He doesn't even look at me.

I sit down next to him. "No."

The simple, monosyllabic word hangs in the air until it is carried away by a sudden gust of wind that makes the leaves of the hedges rustle and one of his wind chime sculptures emitting a clanging noise of glass touching glass.

Seconds pass without conversation, maybe minutes, I can't say. His head comes up eventually, staring at something in the distance. "Why?" It's a simple question, and I'm not sure what he means before he elaborates. "Why would you stay?"

"Because if I go, you'll just wallow in self-pity, like the way you do. And I think you've had quite enough of that." It's the truth, and as much as I hate admitting it to myself, it's exactly what he needs to hear.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe I have."

A smile spreads over my lips before I can help it. I look up to squint at the sun that is still bright in the sky. I get up and stand in front of him, holding my hand out to him. "Come on, let's go meet Grace and Geek Boy."

He looks up at me with questioning eyes, as if I just proposed something impossibly outrageous like 'Let's go dye our hair green.'

I nod my head in the direction of the street. "What are you waiting for? An invitation?"

He swallows his initial surprise at my sudden mood swing and takes my hand, letting me pull him up from his sitting position. When I release it maybe a little too quickly, he stands in front of me, his eyes pleading—dark and ever so soulful. How can anyone's eyes ever say so much without actual words? "Jane, I—"

I interrupt him. "Shh, I know. Don't say it. We've had enough of this for one day, don't you think?"

His gaze never wavers, I can just see him making up his mind. He blinks, then: "Okay."

"Good," I say cheerfully.

We're good. For now. I didn't know it was gonna feel this exhilarating, but somehow it does. Maybe I've finally made peace with him. It liberates me to a certain extent. Now I'm glad I came, not only for his sake but also for mine.

I smile at the man walking his dogs who passes me in the street. He returns the smile and nods. Maybe I've done something right today. Who'd ever think?

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THE END.


End file.
